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For part one of “TRUE GANGSTER STORIES“, scroll down to the post from March, 2015.

“Hey, I’m Sonny. My father is in the Gambino Crime Family.”

This was the opening line of a neighborhood Brooklyn jackass when he tried to impress a girl. He used it on a 15 year-old who, years later, became my wife. Maybe it worked on the dimwits, but it repulsed at least as many. He may as well have worn a sign that read “Wannabe Gangster”, but he’d probably have had to borrow it from his clown father.

This particular father was a real tough guy, and Mafia enforcer.

At least, in his mind, and amongst a crowd of impressionable teenagers.

Young punk Sonny would start trouble with everyone. Then, when he had to fight to back up his instigations, he would show up with his bigger, older cousin to do battle for him. If that failed, he’d be back with his father.

No one we knew ever saw that father fight a man his own size or age.

Real “mobster”.

In my prior gangster blog post, I referenced an old Brooklyn health club a couple of times. Sonny’s father had a memorable moment in that gym one day. While pumping iron, he mentioned to another member that he had been in that weight room on the night of the famous New York City blackout (July, 1977). He said “It was pitch black when the lights went out. I couldn’t see a thing. Couldn’t even find the stairway.”

The other guy said, “How black can it get in here? I’m pretty sure I could find the stairway.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Yeah, I could find the stairway.”

Boom. Weights flying everywhere. Fucking this. Fucking that. Walls being punched as everyone looked on. Sonny’s dad did his best Lou Ferrigno-becoming-the-Hulk impression, as he raged all over the gym.

Important note: He did not approach the other weight-lifting adult male or challenge him to a fight. If the other man was a young boy, the intimidation would have been full-on.

Word is that Sonny is doing life in prison, and his cousin died in jail. Not sure what became of the dad, but I’m guessing it wasn’t pretty.

He loved to describe himself as “Limo driver for the Gambinos”, which could only mean one thing; he was not a limo driver for the Gambinos.

You know the guy in the neighborhood who calls himself a “car service driver”? Now HE might be driving for the mob. I knew one of those. Let’s call him “Mac”. Mac was an Italian/Jewish-American, and as a non-full-blooded Italian, he could not become a full-fledged member of the Cosa Nostra, even if he so desired. But that didn’t preclude him from lower-level jobs, as long as he could keep his mouth shut and know his place.

Mac began by picking up customers – initially mostly well-off, older Jewish women from Long Island – and transporting them (and their checkbooks) to some of the backdoor, illegal gambling houses in Bay Ridge or Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. When driving those ladies, he was Jewish. In the casinos, he was an Italian.

After several weeks of chauffeuring, the powers that be had grown fond of Mac. He did his job and kept his mouth shut.

“Can you deal?”

Mac was offered a spot working the Blackjack tables. The secret casino had seven “21” tables and 4 for Poker. The bosses noticed that Mac had an eye for catching mistakes and before long he was a pit boss. The former driver was raking in the cash because he was on duty seven days per week, eleven hours per day.

One night, “The Shiek” walked in.

This was the highest of rollers. He owned an unknown number of gas stations and whatever he needed was provided by Mac and his staff. Mac was now in charge of extending credit, and The Shiek had the rare privilege of being offered unlimited credit.

It was a bad night for the gas tycoon.

He couldn’t win a hand. The Shiek wound up staying at the casino for three days. They fed him anything he wished. He was permitted to nap and bathe.

By the final night, the mob boss who ran the gambling house also was the proud owner of two gas stations.

When that big boss, and family don (a famous gangster whom Mac, decades later, still refuses to identify), decided to visit one of his casinos, everything stopped.

He would enter, as in a movie scene, with a beautiful woman on each arm, and a pair of enormous gorillas behind him. Mac would hurriedly, but politely, ask all seven gamblers seated at a given table to please stand and wait for an opening at another. Mac would then escort the boss to his now-private table, where he, and his entourage, could play as they wished.

Mac is one of many regular Joes who never hurt a fly, and certainly never killed anyone, yet provided for his family by working for the New York Underworld. He is a lot like the character Salvatore Salerno in my New York gangster novel, SONS OF THE POPE. The way Mac respects and protects the identity of his former boss is similar to the way some characters in SONS will not even mention the name of their don in public. They merely touch the tips of their noses when referring to him.

A lot of this stuff is amusing, but it’s important to understand that the mob is no comedy show, and if you choose to involve yourself, you may have to pay the ultimate price. (Continued below SONS OF THE POPE link).

I had a childhood friend I’ll call “Lenny”. He was probably the best all-around athlete with whom I’ve ever played sports. Could catch and run with anyone. When we played football, be it tackle or touch, when he received a kickoff or punt (or, in Brooklyn street football, a “throw-off”) there was probably a 50% chance that he was returning it all the way for a touchdown.

We used to sucker guys from the neighborhood who didn’t know us too well. We’d be tossing the football around in the street, throwing it weakly, dropping it here and there. Soon enough, they’d want to play us 2-on-2. We’d put a little money down. I’d be the quarterback, Lenny the receiver. We pulled it off so many times. We only lost once. It was a great gig.

Apart from his athletic prowess, Lenny was a scholar. A computer wizard in the 1970s.

Then, within a brief span, he lost both of his parents. He turned to drugs. Next, he owed money. Money borrowed from the streets. Before long, he was gone. Just gone. I’ve heard different rumors about his demise, but to me, my friend Lenny just vanished. Forever.

Another friend-of-a-friend had a similar issue with owing money. He went around asking everyone he knew for cash to pay back his street lenders. He asked everyone except his own family – he was too ashamed. None of his pals could afford the amount he owed. He was found, in pieces, in the trunk of a car on Bond St. No head. It was probably somewhere in the Gowanus Canal, with all the others. After that, his entire family moved to California.

Rules had to be followed. Yes, the mob sold drugs, but there were certain areas that were “off limits”. Maybe they were too near a church or school, or too close to the home of an important boss. Fred sold drugs for the Mafia. His problem was that he kept selling them in the “off-limits” areas. He’d been warned, but would “slip up”. A meeting was called. Fred left his house in a fancy suit. He wanted to make a good impression. At the meeting, he was relaxed by the other attendees. He got another warning, all very friendly. The meeting officially over, he changed into his sweat suit to make a meal for the boys. With the important business concluded, his clothes changed, and there no longer being the threat of him wearing a wire. They killed him as the pasta boiled.

There was a baker in Brooklyn who also happened to be a “numbers runner” for the local crime family. This was basically an illegal lottery. The runner would collect the money from a bettor, and, ideally, turn it in, with the chosen numbers, to his boss. If the bettor’s number came up, he won, otherwise he lost. Oftentimes these numbers runners would hang onto the bets and never turn them in. The odds were with them. Usually, the numbers wouldn’t come out. It was a longshot bet. The runner would just pocket the bet with his bosses none the wiser.

The problem was, sometimes the bettors did win. This particular time, a man had bet $50, playing the numbers in his wedding anniversary. He hit for $25,000. Adjusted for inflation, his score was worth almost $200,000 in today’s currency. The baker – the runner who never turned the ticket in to the crime family – was on the hook to pay the winner.

Nobody ever saw him again. His wife stood in front of their home screaming when he never came home from work. Did he flee the country? Was his head floating in the Gowanus? No one knew, but the next day the closed bakery went up in flames. The authorities never determined who torched the bakery, but soon after, a local kid was given a new nickname.

The Flame.

Right near that bakery lived the fella who was dating the daughter of the local boss-of-bosses. She became pregnant. It was assumed and arranged that they would be married immediately. One the eve of the big day, not only did the groom call off the wedding, he broke up with his expectant fiancée. I’m not sure what this man thought would come of this, but shortly after, he had his face sliced open from ear to mouth, then, on the other side, from mouth to ear. Many assumed he was permitted to live because he was still the father of the unborn child. The two up-and-coming gangsters contracted for this particular job had earned their own new nicknames.

The Surgeons.

Then there was The Butcher. Scary name, but not what you’d expect. The Butcher was a family man, and neighborhood good-guy. He was a great husband and father who had served our country quite honorably in the armed forces. He worked in the meat department at the A & P supermarket. Then, just like that, he was laid off. All he knew was honest work, so he applied for a job at something called Meat Kingdom. It was a thriving local business, their management knew he was a top-notch butcher, so he got the job. It was only then that he learned that Meat Kingdom was owned by a super-famous gangster (and one who would soon be rubbed out in one of the most famous hits of all-time). The big gangster’s son ran the shop’s day-to-day business. The Butcher happened to be father to one of my best friends. That friend had a very realistic, and quite creepy-looking, rubber rat. One day, the Butcher – always one for a good laugh – brought the fake rat to work. He placed the creature in one of the meat lockers and waited to see how the prank would play out with his co-workers.

You could probably finish this story for me. The junior gangster, son of the big boss, and manager of the store, came upon the toy rodent. The young mobster screamed like a cheerleader, wet his pants, and almost backed into a working bandsaw as he rushed to escape.

The backfired prank actually had the butcher concerned for his safety, and the future of his family. Having the don’s son make a fool of himself in front of all of his employees is not something that the Butcher intended.

Here’s what happened after.

Nothing. No broken legs, no sliced face, no “meeting”. No apology required.

The employees, after some time, figured that the Butcher escaped punishment because of a combination of things; he was not part of “the life” – just an ordinary citizen, he turned out to be the best meat-cutter they had, and maybe most of all, how could pants-wetting junior explain to his father the reason for any punishment?

Interesting fact about that Butcher: though he was a regular guy, and law-abiding citizen, his own father had been a collector and enforcer for a well-connected Brooklyn loan shark. He remembered that his dad always carried a tire iron on his person, and never entered or exited his own apartment through the front door. He would use the fire escape of an adjoining building, then, walk across the rooftops, leading to the fire escape of his own apartment.

St. Agnes Seminary was located on Avenue R in Brooklyn. Grades K-8, girls only. My cousins attended in the early 70s. Two of their young friends happened to be the granddaughters of the biggest crime boss in New York. A bit of a war broke out and there had been kidnapping threats against the two little girls.

The police were never involved. Instead, the girls showed up at school each day with a parade of black cars. Their “private security guards” were permitted to be posted all over the school grounds, and always outside the classrooms of the threatened children. Word was that this permission was granted due to a sizeable donation.

My cousins found it to be fun and exciting because the gangsters brought them along for a pizzeria lunch almost every day, and paid for the whole thing.

Kids born into a mob family are different than those who aspire to be gangsters. Those children of gangsters know nothing different. By the time than can make decisions for themselves, they’ve effectively been brainwashed. The outsiders trying to get in have made their own decision. I’ve known both kinds. A kid used to live next door to me. I’ll call him Petey. He was a decent kid, but not a friend of mine. Maybe he tried to act tougher than he was. He hung with a bunch of wannabe gangsters a bit older than he and I. They pretended to be “connected” but were basically big-talking morons. Petey had a younger sister who was a very sweet girl. I felt bad for her, always surrounded by those fools.

One time Petey came around in a car with three of these goons. I was standing on a street corner with one other friend. They called me over to their vehicle.

“Listen, did you take anything from Mrs. Freiberg’s yard?” one of them asked me. Mrs. Freiberg was my landlord, and I lived in the basement.

“We planted some marijuana in her yard and it’s all gone. We’ll look into it further before anything gets done,” said Chubby.

I wanted to say, “Gets done? Who the fuck are you to threaten me?” But it was just me standing with one guy who wasn’t much of a fighter, and there were four of them – three who were quite a bit older. Almost men vs. boys. I said nothing and they drove off. I made a mental note to tell my older brothers – who did not live with me – but would’ve been there anytime I needed them. I wonder how tough those guys would’ve talked if a couple of big guys their own age had been with me? My brothers, Ed and Kevin.

Nothing ever came of that stolen marijuana situation. I assume Mrs. Freiberg just dug the shit up and threw it away. As for my neighbor Petey, a year or two later he was shot in the back of his head in Manhattan. Dead. I still feel bad for his little sister, wherever she may be.

Sometimes our mobsters seem to have better international relationships than our government. This became evident to a friend of mine who attended the funeral of a prominent Canadian gangster, north of the border. He wandered around the funeral home, reading the cards on the huge floral arrangements.

“Deepest sympathy, Detroit.”

“Condolences on your loss, New York.”

“Loved and remembered, Chicago.”

There was a ten year-old boy whose step-father would always bring him to a bar in Astoria, Queens. The kid was allowed to sit right at the bar, amongst the grown men, drinking his Shirley Temples, while the step-dad did his business in the back room.

Sometimes two men would come to the boy’s house. The same two well-dressed men – every time. The stepfather’s name was Fritz – everyone called him that.

For whatever reason, these two men called him Frank.

It turns out that Fritz (or Frank) did a lot of “favors” for these men. Much of the time it involved transporting weapons from New Mexico to New York City.

One day, the favor they requested would have had Fritz testifying in court as a witness to a major accident that had occurred. The thing was, Fritz had never witnessed the accident in question, and was quite adverse to court proceedings of any kind.

For the first time, he refused their request.

The outcome: Fritz immediately packed up his entire family and left New York for the southwest. No one who knew them has seen them since.

Well, I may have.

I will conclude this blog with the words of some mystery man whom I would be in contact with almost every evening, for a time, in The Borough of Churches.

During my first year at Brooklyn College, I was on an emotional roller-coaster. Things weren’t so great for me. I was quite depressed, but tried to keep a happy face. It wasn’t working. I had a Sociology class and I figured I could make something out of it. As an assignment, based on my suggestion, I transformed into another person. There was a neighborhood kid who was always picked on. He wasn’t the best-looking guy, and had some hygiene issues. He sold the New York Post on the street. I stopped shaving, showered a lot less, stayed away from my friends, and got a job selling the Post.

I would sell the evening edition, after school, out near the Verrazano Bridge, right off the parkway exit.

The newspaper sold for 25 cents. Each evening a long, black sedan would come off the highway and stop in front of me. The windows were nearly black. The rear window would roll down just a crack. I could never see who was in that car, but the transaction was always the same. There I was, looking borderline homeless, holding the papers, many times in the rain, with plastic over them and nothing over me.

He would slide a five dollar bill out the window crack and I would stuff the newspaper through it in return. He never accepted any change. He paid twenty times the price of the New York Post. Every night.

Then he would say only one word, and roll his window up. It is the same word I will sincerely pass along to all who have taken the time to read this blog.

Most people I know enjoy a good mob story; especially, the TRUE ones. As a former police officer, I have no love for lifelong criminals. The world would be a wonderful place without them. There is a certain fascination with gangsters, though. The REAL ones, anyway. Those who won’t bring harm to your loved ones – unless your loved ones are part of “The Life”. The ones who keep their bloodshed exclusively in-house gain a certain respect from me, even though I’d put them behind bars in an instant. I’ve seen the workings of the mob through the eyes of a Brooklyn kid who lived among the legends, and then, much later, from my perspective as a New York police officer. My New York friends and family have a seemingly endless supply of mob stories, as well. Actually, there may not be any true good guys or bad guys. Only differing shades of gray.
I, along with my late cousin, Peter Randazzo (who had even more tales than I) have a novel called SONS OF THE POPE. It is fiction – but based on things all too real. It is the story of a family-within-a-family. It spans five decades of New York. It, as the best-selling title ever from its publisher (Blood Bound Books) has achieved something that doesn’t happen often – an option for television for an indie novel. More on all of that, and some pretty big name praise for the book, at the end of the post, but how about some REAL organized crime stories – FOR FREE – from the mouths of the Brooklyn folks who were there? None of these incidents appear in my novel. That is chock full of the better ones. Unless an incident is already public knowledge, names have been changed to protect – everyone. Feel free to add your own stories in the comments section for all to see!

If this post draws interest, I will add additional true mob stories in a series, so be sure to “follow” this blog to be notified of the latest updates!

It might now be relevant to include a quote from the first page of my novel as we begin:

“Though inspired by certain true events, SONS OF THE POPE is a work of fiction. Because as many a New Yorker will tell you when asked about organized crime…There’s no such thing.”

I’ve heard that, or some variation on it, countless times. Sometimes Mr. Gotti was their cousin, or their aunt’s ex-boyfriend, or their girlfriend’s neighbor. The smarter ones would use John’s older brother, Peter Gotti, as a more realistic curveball. This was when I was a cop in New York. Mind you, I was working in Suffolk County, Long Island. My precinct was 30 miles from John Gotti. Seemed any punk who was unhappy with being locked up, somehow thought the cops would shudder in fear, and open up the jail doors, at the mere mention of their fictional connection to a famous mobster. I can only imagine what the NYPD cops heard.

Years before, as a kid growing up in Brooklyn, if I happened to have the upper hand in some street fight, or even just an argument, I’d get Carlo Gambino or “Big Paul” Castellano thrown in my face as the man who was going to do me in. That’s right, the alleged head of an organized crime family was going to execute a 15 year-old boy because he happened to have someone in a headlock.

The point of all this is that the big mouths who are quick to tell you how “connected” they are, or boast about who they “know”, and who is going to be dumping you in a swamp, are always completely full of shit.

If you have a confrontation or altercation with someone, and they dust themselves off, give you a steely-eyed smirk, and quietly walk away, THEN you might have something with which to concern yourself.

My wife watches the VH1 television series MOB WIVES, and whenever I have seen a bit of it, my mind has been blown. Some of these ladies may actually be connected to alleged crime families (or were – before they were excommunicated), yet they are the complete antithesis of a true gangster, in every way.

The late Vincent “The Chin” Gigante – a man who, to downplay any relationship to the criminal mastermind the government accused him of being, spent decades walking the streets in a bath robe and staring into space – can you picture his reaction to watching an episode of MOB WIVES?

Seems all they do on that show are scream at each other, call one another “rats” or “cop-callers”, and boast about their affiliations with “the lifestyle” – oh, and they do this all ON NATIONAL TELEVISION! Back in the day, this would not have stood a chance of happening. In fact, in the early 1970s, the makers of the film THE GODFATHER made a deal with legendary wiseguy Joseph Colombo, whereby the terms “Mafia” and “Cosa Nostra” would not be uttered in the movie – and that motion picture, based on Mario Puzo’s novel, was FICTION. Shortly thereafter, Colombo was shot, paralyzed, and eventually died from his injuries. Word on the street was that he was targeted because he was bringing too much unwanted publicity to the five crime families of New York. This was the guy who thought THE GODFATHER was bringing too much attention to the Mafia – and HE was likely gunned down for doing the exact same thing.

Now, think about MOB WIVES one more time.

I lived in the heart of the Joe Colombo/Joey Gallo stronghold for a part of my youth. I lost my parents before I turned seven, so I bounced around a bit between families – both mine and the territories of the “Five Families” of New York. I always, however, lived in Brooklyn. From 1960 through 1990.

Joe Colombo’s Italian-American Civil Rights League offices were directly across the street from the apartment in which I lived, on Fifth Avenue. I could see it from my bedroom window. Right around the corner, on President Street, was the entry into Joey Gallo’s territory. Many believe that Colombo was shot (in 1971) because of his many television appearances in connection with his Civil Rights League. Too much of a spotlight brought to the families. Most also believe that Joey Gallo was behind the shooting, though he did not pull the trigger himself. A year later, Gallo was murdered in a restaurant in Manhattan. Bob Dylan even wrote a song about him. “Joey” appears on my favorite Dylan album, DESIRE.

Did you know that the mob even controlled gumball machines?

Joey Gallo’s crew used to give neighborhood kids a quarter to smash any gumball machines that were not owned and operated by their gang. Well, one day, a shoemaker on Smith Street caught three kids in the act of destroying the machines in front of his store. He managed to grab one as they fled and began to inflict some street justice. I guess he didn’t count on the other two returning to help their captured friend. Return, they did – and the three of them handed the shoemaker one of the more serious beatings the neighborhood had seen. The kids made their bones that day. Instead of the 25 cent piece they would normally receive for the routine machine-smash, they each received a stack of crisp bills. Within days, the Joey Gallo gum machines stood in front of that shoe repair shop.

As a child, my own Italian wife, Joanne, growing up near Court Street, was told by her parents, “Do not go too far down President or Carroll Streets. That’s where the gangsters are.” The many law-abiding Italian-Americans went to great lengths to steer clear of the trouble.

After Gallo’s murder, his sister Carmella declared, over his casket, that “The streets are going to run red with blood, Joey.”

This may have run through the minds of some of my childhood friends as they sat, one late night, on a street corner in Sheepshead Bay. They were in their early teens. A black car pulled up, and two well-dressed, burly men got out. They walked up to the teens and said “Yous might wanna go somewhere else. It ain’t safe here.” Now, these kids usually would have risked a smack in the teeth by responding in some smart-ass manner, but they had the street sense to know this was the big leagues. They retreated into the alleyway behind the buildings. Within the hour they heard the shots fired, screams, then, a bit later, police sirens. That meant, to them, that they could emerge. They ambled from the alley to find people surrounding a bloodied man on the sidewalk. He was in front of a restaurant and a health club. They recognized the woman kneeling over his body as a young lady they knew from the neighborhood. For reasons known only to her, she was wiping his blood on her arms and face as he died.

“The streets are going to run red with blood, Joey.”

Those same kids, in that same back alley, had an incident happen in broad daylight, as they played a game of Wiffle Ball. The stores and restaurants along a certain section of Avenue U would have their back doors open into small yards that were fenced in from that particular alley. There was a restaurant there that had closed down and was converted into a “social club”. The kids were often given five bucks by the club members to run to OTB (Off-Track-Betting was a legal form of wagering on the horses in NY at the time) and bring back copies of The Racing Form (also known as the “scratch sheet”). The kids had earned their cash, brought back the Racing Forms, and were now onto their Wiffle Ball battle in the alley.

They thought they heard fireworks. Maybe some M-80s or “ash cans”, they figured. Then the men from the social club began to scale the back fence and spill into the alley, completely disrupting their ball game. It was a shotgun hit in the club. The kids later learned that the victim was the father of someone they knew fairly well.

Remember that health club I mentioned, outside of which the young woman was wiping her dying boyfriend’s blood all over herself? As a kid, I “worked” there. It was also featured in the documentary PUMPING IRON, which starred Arnold Schwarzenegger and Lou (“Incredible Hulk”) Ferrigno. When I say I “worked” there, I mean I had a handshake deal with the owner. I would come in at the end of each day and put away all of the weights that were strewn about the floor. I would keep the place tidy, and in return, I could work out any time I wanted. That is how Brooklyn operated back then. That’s how an orphaned kid, without a cent, could secure a prime health club membership. Also, see nothing and say nothing.

The Story of Muscle Matty:

Muscle Matty might’ve been the strongest guy I’ve ever met, in terms of physical power. Sometimes it would take two of us kids to hand him the dumbbell he was going to pump with his ONE hand. We were in awe of him. He was a monster. Unfortunately, he was also a monster of a different kind, and we had no idea. It seemed Muscle Matty had a thing for under-aged boys. Word was, if the boy wasn’t interested, Matty might just take what he wanted anyway.

Who was going to stop him?

This may have been one of those cases where the mob actually did some good.

Matty apparently came upon a boy he fancied in a public restroom. The kid wanted no part of him, but the muscle-man forced himself on the child.

Unfortunately for Matty, that kid was one of the quiet ones who knew better than to boast about the connections he had.

Maybe a week later, Muscle Matt’s body was found with his own severed penis stuffed in his mouth.

Lest anyone think my claim is that only Italian-Americans can be gangsters, I can assure you that I am well aware that there are gangs and gangsters of almost every ethnicity. It’s just that the Mafia has risen to a strange level of popularity in American culture. My own father, at the age of eight, in 1931, was almost accidentally gunned down – most likely by Irish-American gunmen. He was just a kid walking down a Brooklyn street at the wrong time, when one of those machine-gun-out-the-window-cars we have all seen in the movies turned a corner blasting at somebody. He dove under a parked car for safety.

“You shouldn’t hang around here, Eddie,” said one of the local toughs as everyone dusted themselves off. My father ran straight home, never bothering to survey the aftermath of the drive-by. He also knew, at that tender age, to be “in the wind” by the time the coppers arrived.

In fact, my father’s first cousin, Helen Walsh, was, at that very moment, gun moll, and accomplice for Irish/German-American gangster, murderer, and cop-killer, Francis “Two-Gun” Crowley. Miss Walsh was in the fifth floor Manhattan apartment with Crowley and his partner, Fats Duringer, as they waged a gun battle with 300 New York City police officers, before finally surrendering. 15,000 people found their way to the scene of that incident that day. My cousin Helen wound up testifying against the two men, and both went to the electric chair. Needless to say, I am not proud that my own blood was an accomplice to a cop-killer, and also had the distinction of becoming a “rat”, or a “canary” – “singing” to the feds.
Well, we all have family members who go astray. But, the reporter who gave the tip that brought them all down was named Joe O’Connor. Shared my family name. Way to go, Joe.

Two-Gun Crowley was immortalized by the character Cody Jarrett, as portrayed by James Cagney, in the 1949 film, WHITE HEAT. I never met my cousin Helen, who lived her life out on Long Island – never uttering another word about her times with Francis “Two-Gun” Crowley. I did know her sister, Margaret, who was all too willing to share details about the entire story.

Currently, if one does a YouTube search for “Two Gun Crowley”, footage of his arrest is available. After he is wheeled out, wounded, Helen Walsh can be seen being escorted, and arrested, by police. So too can Fats Duringer.

I wonder, is there any chance my then eight year-old father, wasn’t just “accidentally” in the sights of those machine-gunners? Could this have had anything at all to do with his high-profile gangster cousin and whatever the heck she was up to her elbows in? Could he have been a pawn – or part of some message to her and Crowley?

Probably not, but I’ll never know for sure.

I have some amazing, true mob stories all set for the next blog post, so please stay tuned!

If you’d like to read a novel that Amazon reviews have compared to gangster classics such as THE GODFATHER, GOODFELLAS, and THE SOPRANOS, take a FREE peek at SONS OF THE POPE. It’s available in a new, second edition paperback, and for Kindle or Nook.

It has a 4.9 rating (out of 5) on Amazon.com. 4.4 on GoodReads.

It has been optioned for television by brilliant creative forces behind incredible shows such as DEXTER, NURSE JACKIE, RECTIFY, RED WIDOW, and CONSTANTINE.

Remember AL PACINO’S incredible performance in THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE? Well, the man who wrote the novel upon which that film was based, ANDREW NEIDERMAN, has praised SONS OF THE POPE, and his quote can be found on the back of the book. Mr. Neiderman has also written all of the books in the VC ANDREWS series for over thirty years. He has sold over ONE HUNDRED MILLION books.

New York Times best-selling author, KEVIN O’BRIEN, who has brought readers to the edge of their seats with ONLY SON (optioned for film by TOM HANKS), THE NEXT TO DIE, THE LAST VICTIM, and UNSPEAKABLE, called my novel, “A rich, epic chronicle of murder, the mob, and miracles.”

JOHN LOCKE, who was the first self-published author to sell over ONE MILLION novels on Kindle, felt so strongly about SONS OF THE POPE that he ran a contest for his readers to win copies of the book. He bought those contest copies with his own money. Mr. Locke’s DONOVAN CREED thriller series and EMMETT LOVE westerns have proven so popular, he became the first author ever to sign a distribution deal with Simon & Schuster. He retained all editorial rights, and control over design, content, and pricing. In the publishing world, that is unheard of.

Take a FREE peek at what those three New York Times best-selling authors are all excited about. See what might spur a top television producer and director to option an independent novel for television.